Page 8 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Tristan stood in his study, tall at the window with his hands buried deep in his pockets.

From that high place, he could see the gardens spread out before him.

He could also see how the morning sun shone on everything, displaying them in a rather clear light.

It caught the flowers, the hedges, and the trees.

It also caught the bench where his new wife sat.

She was bent slightly forward, a sketchbook open in her lap, and her hand moving with calm steadiness. He watched the way she paused, then marked the page again, her face narrowed in concentration.

He had not expected this. He had thought her quiet, reserved to the point of being cold. Yet here she was, alive in a way he had not seen in the carriage or at their first dinner.

He remembered seeing Gideon walk to her earlier.

They had spoken, and he had found himself almost amused by the thought.

What could Gideon, the hardened soldier that he was, possibly have to say to this young woman with her gentle, careful hands?

He had turned back to his work then, but his eyes kept returning to the garden, drawn against his will.

The door opened behind him.

“My lord,” Stanley greeted with a soft bow. “Lady Howard has arrived.”

Tristan turned his head just slightly. “Show her in.”

Stanley bowed again. “Yes, my lord.”

A moment later, Evelyn swept in, dressed in a soft lavender gown, and her gloved hands folded neatly over one another. Her smile was easy, almost like she didn’t even know it was there.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she said at once, her tone both fond and teasing. “What are you doing by the window? Trying to burn a hole through the gardens with those sharp eyes of yours?”

Tristan did not respond. Instead, he returned his gaze to the figure below and continued to watch the small movement of her hand as she drew.

Evelyn walked closer, the rustle of her dress filling the silence. She leaned closer to the glass panes and followed his line of sight.

“Ah,” she said with a knowing hum. “A lady who draws. Perhaps if I stand here beside you, we can burn a hole together. Though in her sketchbook rather than her gown.”

Tristan exhaled slowly, his hands curled into fists in his pockets. He eventually turned to Evelyn, his face devoid of any kind of laughter, and when he spoke again, his voice was even.

“Did you know my mother also painted?”

Evelyn’s head turned at once, her eyes wide. “What? Josephine? You cannot mean it.”

He nodded. “Yes. She loved to paint, and architecture was her delight. When she traveled with my father, she would sketch buildings, village centers, halls, and arches. And when they returned, she would lock herself away in the observatory.

My father refused to build her a proper atelier, so she took the observatory as her own. She would be in there for hours, drawing everything she remembered.”

He paused, the image of his mother hunched over a table with ink and charcoal staining her fingertips settling into his mind. He could even almost see the rare and satisfied smile on her lips.

“Of course, it vexed my father endlessly,” he continued anyway when he realized Evelyn wouldn’t say anything.

It was one of those rare occasions when his aunt was lost for words.

“He would entertain visitors, and she would vanish upstairs. I even remember whispers. Some thought she was having a secret affair.”

Evelyn gave a sharp laugh. “I thought she was carrying on a secret affair. To think she was only painting is quite unbelievable.”

Tristan nodded as Evelyn shook her head, half amused and half scandalized. “But now it makes sense. A woman of her status could hardly let it be known. An affair may have been unforgivable, yes, but at least it was something society could name.”

Tristan ground his jaw as his aunt continued to speak.

“Painting, however? There is no excuse for that. People who do that barely have time for anything else. My dear, I can almost forgive her secrecy.”

Tristan sighed. “Perhaps. But I remember the look on her face. The quiet contentment. She loved it, and that was enough.”

Evelyn nodded and said nothing else. His aunt almost seemed to understand, for some reason, that this was his time to speak.

Tristan looked back toward the garden again. “I see that same look now on Eliza’s face. She has found some measure of peace with her sketches, and I cannot think of taking that from her. I cannot be like my father.”

Evelyn moved closer and rested her hand on his arm, giving it a small squeeze. “Whether society deems it proper or not does not matter now. What matters is harmony between the two of you. Because that is what sustains a marriage.”

Tristan made no answer. His eyes remained fixed on the bench below.

“Tell me,” Evelyn said after a moment, her voice lighter again, “have you spoken with her about it?”

He let out a breath. “I have not spoken with her about anything. Not since the wedding.”

“What in God’s name are you doing then?” Evelyn asked, her eyes sharp.

“I am giving her space,” Tristan said firmly. “She has been through enough, and I do not wish to crowd her. I believe she deserves time to find her place here.”

Evelyn leaned closer, lowering her voice as though confiding a great secret. “Darling, the very last thing newlyweds ought to give each other is space. It belongs to strangers, not to couples bound by vows.”

Her words struck him more than he wished to admit, and he shifted slightly, looking away from her knowing eyes.

Evelyn smoothed her gloves. “Well, I will not press you further. You are just as stubborn as your father, and no amount of my talk will change that in a day.”

A brief laugh escaped his lips as she took a step back. “Oh well.”

She smiled as well. “Now, I am off with the ladies. There is a gathering, and I should not be late. Plus, I expect to find you less brooding when I return. Do you hear me?”

She moved toward the door, her perfume trailing lightly behind her. At the threshold, she looked back once, her eyes gleaming with something between affection and warning.

Then she was gone.

The study was silent again, and Tristan stood unmoving at the window, Evelyn’s words circling in his mind. He looked down once more to the garden, where Eliza bent over her sketchbook, her hand steady on the paper, then he drew in a long breath.

Space or no space, his aunt was right. Something had to shift.

***

Tristan sat in his study again the next morning.

The sun was brighter, and it cut rather sharp lines across the floorboards.

From his window, he could see the garden below.

She was there again, his wife, with her sketchbook.

She sat on the bench with her back straight, the light falling across her shoulders.

He watched her tilt her head, then lower it as her hand began to move over the page.

He found himself staring again, and a part of him wondered how many hours she could sit like that.

Could she do that all day?

At last, he forced himself away from the window and sat at his desk where the estate ledgers waited. He had just begun reading through the sheep tallies when a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Tristan said, his eyes not leaving the page.

The door opened, and Gideon stepped in, a stack of books tucked beneath his arm. He crossed the room and put them on the desk with a dull thud.

“Here are the volumes you asked for, my lord,” Gideon said.

Tristan looked up at him and shook his head. “I still have not grown used to hearing you say that.”

Gideon’s mouth tugged into a smile. “I have grown used to saying it.”

Tristan raised a brow. “So easily?”

“I have always been quick to adapt,” Gideon said.

Tristan leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “You know what might help me adapt?”

Gideon tilted his head. “What?”

“A game of archery.” Tristan’s voice lightened, though only slightly. “I shall ask my grandfather to have a few targets set up in the back courtyard. Perhaps you will find yourself humbled.”

Gideon laughed under his breath. “If memory serves, I remember beating you once or twice back then. I still remember the look on your face. It was glorious.”

Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. “That was years ago. I have improved since then. After the war, I spent the better part of two years at the hunting lodge and learned to draw and release until my arms ached. Trust me, Hale, I am not the same man with a bow as I was then.”

“Mm,” Gideon said with a grin. “We shall see.”

Silence fell for a moment. Gideon shifted his weight, his hands behind his back, and Tristan leaned forward over the ledgers once more.

“If that’ll be all, my lord,” the valet eventually said, making to turn around.

Then Tristan again, his voice lower. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything,” Gideon replied at once, steadying his feet back to their original position.

Tristan lifted his eyes from the page. “Has my wife eaten today?”

The question seemed to catch Gideon off guard as his brows rose, though only for a moment.

“I cannot say, my lord. That is a matter for Mrs. Yarrow. But from what I have seen, the lady spends much of her time in the gardens. Hours, in fact. So it is not far off to assume she eats little.”

Tristan drew in a breath and let it out again slowly. “That is not very healthy, is it?”

Gideon hesitated, then stepped closer to the desk. “If you will permit me, my lord, that is not the problem.”

Tristan lifted his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“The problem is not whether she eats or not. The problem is whether she eats with you. You have not spoken a word to her since the wedding.”

Tristan swallowed, letting the words hang heavy between them. Then his jaw tightened, and he looked down at the ledger. “I have my reasons.”

“I know your reasons,” Gideon said, his voice devoid of malice. “I remember the nights at camp, when you told me you never meant to marry. You said often that a wife meant vulnerability. That you could not afford such a thing.”